he joined us, and turned back. She stayed
behind, and was presently in company with
our landlady, Mrs. Davis, who was taking
the air in a little wheeled chair drawn by a
footman. Mrs. Davis had always noticed
Lettie. Harry Crofts looked back once or
twice to see if she was following; but, when
he found she was not, he proposed to wait for
her, and we sat down by the water on a tree
trunk which lay there.

"This is a sad thing about Lettie's eyes,
Jane," he said suddenly.

"Yes, it is. What do you think about
them? Is there any chance for her?"

"Doctor Nash says not; but, Jane, next
week Philipson, the best oculist in England,
is coming to stay a couple of days with Nash.
Let him see her."

"I meant to try to get her to London for
advice."

"There is nobody so clever as Philipson.
Oh! Jane, I wish I had passed—"

"Do you fancy you know what would cure
her?"

"I'd try. You know, Jane, I love Lettie.
I meant to ask her to be my wife. I did ask
her this afternoon, and she said, No; and
then told me about her sight—it is only that.
I know she likes me: indeed, she did not try
to deny it.''

"Yes, Harry, you have been so much
together; but there must be no talk of
marrying."

"That is what she says."

"She is right—she must just stay with me.
You could not do with a blind wife, Harry:
you, a young man, with your way to make in
the world."

He tore up a handful of grass, and flung it
upon the river, saying passionately, "Why,
of all the girls in Dalston must this affliction
fall on poor Lettie?" and then he got up
and walked away to meet her coming along
the bank. They had a good deal of talk
together, which I did not listen to; for their
young hearts were speaking to each other—
telling their secrets. Lettie loved him: yes,
certainly she loved him.

III.

DOCTOR PHILIPSON'S opinion was the same
as that of Doctor Nash. Lettie was not so
down-stricken as I had dreaded she would
be, and she bade good-bye to Harry Crofts
almost cheerfully when he went up to
London.

"There, Jane, now I hope he'll forget me,"
she said to me; "I don't like to see him so
dull."

That day Mrs. Davis sent her a ticket for
a concert at the Blind Institution, and she
went. When she came home to tea she told
me that the girls and boys who sang looked
quite happy and contented. "And why should
I not be so too? what a number of beautiful
sights I can remember which some of them
never saw!" she added, with a sigh.

After this, imperceptibly, her sight went;
until I noticed that, even in crossing the floor,
she felt her way before her, with her hands out.
Doctor Nash again offered to use his influence
to get her admitted into the Institution, but
she always pleaded "Let me stay with you,
Janey!" and I had not the heart to refuse;
though she would have had more advantages
there, than I could afford her.

Not far from us there lived an old German
clockmaker, who was besides musical, and
acted as organist at the Roman Catholic
Chapel in the town. We had known him all
our lives. Lettie often carried him a posy from
our garden, and his grandchildren came to me
for patches to dress their dolls. Müller was
a grim fantastic-looking figure, but he had a
heart of pure gold. He was benevolent,
simple, kindly; it was his talk that had
reconciled Lettie, more than anything else
to her condition, He was so poor, yet so
satisfied; so afflicted, yet unrepining.

"Learn music—I will teach thee," he
said to my sister. So, sometimes in our little
parlour, and sometimes in his, he gave her
lessons in fine sacred pieces from Handel and
Haydn, and taught her to sing as they sing
in churches—which was grander than our
simple Methodist hymns. It was a great
delight to listen to her. It seemed as if she
felt everything deeper in her heart, and
expressed it better than before: and it was all
her consolation to draw the sweet sounds up
out of that well of feeling which love had
sounded. I know that, to remember how Harry
loved her, gave a tenderness and patience to
her suffering which it would else have lacked.
She, who used to be so quick with her tongue,
never gave anybody a sharp word now.

I do not say much about our being poor,
though, of course, that could not but be; still
we had friends who were kind to us: even
Mrs. Davis softened, and mentioned to me.
under seal of confidence, that, if I could not
quite make up the rent, she would not press
me; but I fortunately had not to claim her
forbearance, or else I do fear she could not
have borne to lose a sixpence; and when it
had come to the point we should have had to
go like others: she was so very fond of money,
poor woman! Lettie used to go to the
Institution sometimes, where she learnt to knit,
and net, and weave basket-work. Our rector
(a better man never lived, or a kinder to the
poor) had her to net covers for his fruit-trees,
fishing-nets, and other things; and to knit
woollen socks for himself and his boys; so
that altogether she contrived to make what
almost kept her. Now that the calamity had
really come, it was not half so dreadful as it
had seersed a long way off. Lettie was
mostly cheerful. I never heard her complain,
but she used to say, often, that there was
much to be thankful for with us. She had a
quiet religious feeling, which kept her from
melancholy; and, though I did not find it out
until afterwards, a hope that perhaps her